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CHARLES 6 




BI/ANDBK; 







LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap Copyright No 

Shelf..B.4 to V 3 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



A VALLEY MUSE 



A VALLEY MUSE 



Bv y 
CHARLES G. BLANDEN 




FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 

Chicago New York Toronto 

1900 



^9^1}"^^^ 



l_ibJ?ajf y of Concrress 

OCT 18 1900 



0^ 



Copyright fifitry 



OCT 23 I90U 



Copyright, iqoo 
By FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 



Cable of Contcntjs 





PAGE 


The Song and the Singer - 


9 


Lilies of the Valley 


lO 


Tranquillity 


II 


Wake, Buds - - - - 


14 


To A Thrush 


- 16 


Regeneration 


19 


Millet's "Gleaners" - 


- 21 


To the Daisies 


24 


The Weaver 


- 25 


Salvage . . - - 


28 


The Shell 


- 29 


Song of the Sword 


31 


The Poets 


- 34 


The Changeling 


36 


The Feast 


- 38 


Afterglow .... 


40 


In the Grampian Hills 


- 41 


Song for June 


43 


To Memory 


- 45 


If I Were King 


48 


Sleeping - - 


- 49 


To Jollity . - - . 


50 


Hollyhocks 


- - 53 


A Marble Boy 


55 


The Grasshopper 


- 56 


Voices of the Wind 


59 



Cable of Otcintentgj 



PAGE 

A Dream - - - - - - 60 

The Last Arrow - - - - 61 

Were I a Robin, Dearest - - - 64 

A Weed . - . . . 65 

The Wind-Harp - - - - - 66 

A Changeless Face - - - 68 

Old Glory - - - - - 69 

To A Cricket .... 71 

The Prisoners - - - - - 73 

Autumn Song - . - . 74 

Youth and Age - - - - - 75 

To the Evening Star - ' - 11 

In the Path of the Wolf - - - 78 

Now Buds to Blossom Break - - 81 

Hymn - - - - - - 82 

The Bee ..... 83 

In M^y - - - - - -85 

The Gossips ----- 87 

Love's Fishing Lesson - - - 88 

Moonlight ----- go 

Inscription - - - - - 92 

Round .-.-.- 93 

I Blame Thee Not - - - - 94 

The Wainscot Mouse - - - 95 

Among My Books - - - - 97 

Voiceless Song - - - - 98 

An Old Man - - - - - 99 

At Work ----- ioi 

Disciplined . . . - . 102 

The Singer ----- 103 

Little Brothers of the Grass - - 104 

Eldorado ----- 107 

Departure ----- 108 

October ----- 109 

6 



€at)le of Otcntents 



PAGE 

Grandmother - - . . - no 

"If Love Were What the Rose Is" - 113 

Sir Oriole - - - - - 114 

Love IS NOT So Fleeting • - - 117 

Venice - - - - - - 118 

Sweet the Roses at Morn - - iig 

On Finding a Dead Bee in a Flower - 121 

Noon - - - - - - 122 

The Opal - - - - - 123 

Time is Passing . - - - 125 

White Clover - - - - - 126 

The Shrine ... - - 128 

Hoping - - - - - - 129 

To a Snowbird .... 130 

When Thy Soldier Home Doth Speed - 131 

Daffodils ----- 132 

The Senorita - - - - - 134 

Strawberries - - - - 136 

Now Daisies Nod .... 137 

The Captain - . - - - 138 

Song for Song - - - - - 139 

A Daughter of the Sun - - - 141 

Time May Steal the Dewy Bloom - 143 

Wordsworth ----- 144 

In My Garden I Saw Time - - - 145 

Sing, Birds . - - - - 146 

I Dreamt that I Met Love - - - 147 

Winter's Minstrel - - - 148 

To Some Greek Poets - - - 149 

Absolution - - - - - 150 

To A Butterfly - - - - 153 

Valentine - - - - - i55 

Dawn ------ 156 

The Valley of the Shadow - - 157 
7 



faille of Olontents 



Song - - - - - - 158 

At Pity's Inn - - - - 159 

To Joy - 161 

The Old Minstrel - - - - 162 

Wild Violets - - - - - 164 

The Mountain Pool - - - 165 



The world loves eternally — 
His honey, not the bee; 
Its fruit, and not the tree; 
The blossom, not the ground; 
The truth, not him who found; 
The light, and not the bringer; 
The song, and not the singer. 

We are but instruments, 
The strings attuned and tense, 
Whereon the hand of Time 
Strikes some few notes sublime; 
And so the music prove 
A thing for men to love. 
What matter whence it came. 
Or what the singer's name? 



iltlfejs of tl^c iBallet 

O bells! cast in the mind of God, 

Sweet angelus of time, 
Bestowing perfume o'er the sod 

From every waxen chime, 
Ye soothe the moments as they pass 

In mute procession by. 
Through cool cathedrals of the grass, 

Afar from Glory's eye. 

My soul doth love to hear you ring, 

As through the fields I go ; 
My heart doth bound to see you swing 

In your green belfries so. 
My thoughts fly up to heaven's gate. 

And there in peace they bow, 
Meek penitents that humbly wait, 

Since ye have taught them how. 



lO 



CraHautUtt^ 



I 

There was a time when I, unthinking, sighed 
To muse by Arno's stream, to watch the 

sun 
Rise o'er the Alps, or, when the day was 
done, 
In moonUt Venice on her v/aters ghde, 
Then Egypt, Greece, and Rome were magni- 
fied 
Beyond their worth. Vain dreams! their 

race is run. 
And now I knov/ that there is only one 
Sweet spot to love, and more than worlds 

beside. 
Not that my soul to beauty has grown cold 

Not that I would not see her varied store, 
But that I know in all her chambers old, 
Than here at home she cannot show me 
more 
Of peace, content, and inward happiness — 
And these are all a mortal need possess. 



CranquiUitg 



II 

What can it profit me to contemplate 

The wreck of empires and dead cities old? 
To say that here triumphant Caesar rolled, 

That this was Pompey's, that was Trajan's 
gate, 

Here sat Augustus in his robes of state. 
Here Tully thundered his philippics bold, 
And here, alas! was Nero's house of gold? 

Let not my soul with such delusion mate! 

Let me not think upon them while at morn 
I yet may wander v/here the brooklet flows, 

Look in the daisy's eye, or, newly born. 

Feast my heart's heart upon my native rose; 

Here is more wholesome music for the mind 

Than kingdoms past or present, and more 
kind. 

Ill 

The pomp of ages and the thrones of kings, 
The glory, grandeur of unrivaled state. 
The fame, the glitter of the mighty great — 

What are they, sweet, unto the sum of things? 

A dream of earth's, a passage of gay wings, 
Or yet but bubbles in the hand of Fate 
That caught her fancy or provoked her 
hate. 

12 



CrantjuiUitg 



Or this or that, the source of all their springs 
Ran dry at last; she smiled upon their race, 

She frowned — she breathed upon them and 
they broke, 
And were no more to her in any place, 

Nor thought of later, when her vision woke 
To other tinsel, bright and frail as they — 
Linworth a sunset or a bud of May. 

IV 

Ay, let me keep my placid leisure here, 
Where I may listen to the robins sing, 
Where I may breathe the balm of mine own 
spring. 
Watch mine own trees throughout the passing 

year. 
See bud and bloom and taste their mellow 
cheer. 
Each season finding in what time doth bring 
Some reason deep for hearty welcoming — 
Like mine own crickets piping sweet and clear. 
Yea, let the old world pass — the world of 
fame; 
Give me but nature in my native land; 
Beside her all the show of earth is tame — 

More in one rose than art can understand, 
In one white lily more of light and grace 
Than Pericles designed, or lit Aspasia's face! 
13 



Wake, pretty buds, 

And open wide your drowsy eyes. 
Look out and up where swallow flies, 
A joyous spirit through the skies; 
The spring has come, awake, arise! 

Heigh ho! the waking of the buds. 

Break, little buds, 

The glossy silken coats ye wear. 
That we may see your faces fair; 
Lay, sweets, your tender bosoms bare 
And fragrance all the laughing air. 

Heigh ho! the bursting of the buds. 

Give, virgin flowers. 

While swift do fly the summer weeks, 
Your kisses to the bee that seeks; 
Show him your hearts, your velvet cheeks, 
And prize the love he truly speaks. 

Heigh ho! the loving of the bee. 

Live, lovely flowers. 

If but a day! Remembered well. 
When ye are gone with dust to dwell, 
H 



MUlu, ^xitifs 



Each precious kiss the bee doth tell 
And sip again in his gold cell. 
Heigh ho ! the honey of the bee. 

So is it, flowers, 

With us; that which we give away, 
Of life or love or roundelay, 
Survives to bless another day; 
That which we keep doth soon decay 

Heigh ho! the winter of the year. 



15 



Co a Ci^msi]^ 

O happy bird! that ere the night is gone 

With limpid song dost greet the early dav/n, 

What power hath faintest light to bid thee wake 

And into such ecstatic music break? 

Art thou Apollo's heir, the transformed lyre 

He left on earth to swell its merry choir 

When all the gods to their high realm.s.withdrew? 

Art thou his voice and his vicegerent true 

To ever hail him at the brink of day, 

And at still eventide repeat the lay? 

Ah, yes, 'tis so; such melody could mount 

From source no less nor from diviner fount; 

'Tis heaven's own, though lent to mortals here 

To be a benediction and a cheer, 

The link that binds the unseen with the seen. 

And keeps Apollo's altars wreathed in green 

And heaped with bloom as when he trod these 

shores, 
And men to him threw open all their doors. 

Sing on! Too little music is there now; 

Pour forth thy strains and teach these humans 

how 

i6 



Co a CSnijji^ 



With song alone 'tis possible to dwell 
Content, nor think it any miracle. 
The old world needs such melody as thine, 
Such perfect song, such harmony divine, 
That her corrosive greeds and rayless plan 
Shut not all gates of paradise to man. 
Sing on, sing on, and keep before our souls 
The paths of light and life's sublimer goals; 
Sing on until the gods return to earth, 
Until wan sorrow yields to laughing mirth. 
Until our hearts, forgetful of their care. 
Behold the chaste Apollo cleave the air. 
To once again his ancient haunts resume; 
Till then, sing on, and keep alive the bloom 
Of his celestial music in thy breast. 
Each morn and evening what is true and best 
In thee outpouring to the groves and sky; 
Fulfill thy mission, thoughtless of the throng. 
And thus, entrancing, thrill us with thy song. 
Fear not that beauty was but born to die; 
Each sweetest note the god of song doth hear 
And safely treasure in his starry sphere 
To live forever in some form of light, 
To charm his dawns and keep his glory bright. 

Therefore, O bird, we praise thee, and we bless 
And thank thee for this cup of happiness — 
The cup wherein no bitter dregs are found, 
But only hope and triumphs of sweet sound, 
17 



^0 a €i)cus1) 



Vouchsafed to us from no polluted spring. 
Adieu! adieu! since thou hast ceased to sing, 
And in the interregnum of thy song 
The day shall seem more fair and faith more 

strong 
For this thy boon, and still to think thy rhyme 
Thou gladly wilt renew at twilight time. 
And may the sorry season never come 
Wherein to thy clear strains our hearts grow 

dumb, 
But ever in our souls, through thine and thee, 
May high dreams rule and drossful earth go 

free, 
That we, like thee, at last may sweep with fire 
The golden strings of an immortal lyre. 



i8 



Beeeueration 



Let the old, old dreams go by, 
And the old hopes die; 
The laughter from their hearts is fled, 
The roses in their cheeks are dead. 
Lo! they are wan and bent and sere 
With unrewards this many a year. 
Yea, let them pass, and in their place 
Rear up a newer, happier race. 
Not so ambitious, not so vain, 
A sturdier and a humbler train, 
That if they bring not to the mind 
That first deep thrill are yet more kind, 
And love us better day by day. 
And lead us down no thorny way, 
And give at eve the cup of rest — 
Content, the nectar of the blest. 

Let the old, old dreams go by. 
And the old hopes die. 
What have they brought unto our doors? 
What freight from all their golden shores? 
A nothing but the empty cask 
Of what, in youth, our hearts did ask, 
19 



^Regeneration 



Alone the husk, the chaff, the dross, 
The mocking, hollow gift of loss; 
No wine, no balm, no wheat, no gold, 
But that heart-hunger of the old, 
This pain, this sorrow, and this grief, 
These cares, these tears, this faded leaf. 
Yea, let them pass, if so they may. 
And all their ghosts glide far away — 
Except one beldame, who shall sit 
Before the fire and rock and knit 
Bright raiment for the babe to be, 
Whom we shall name Felicity. 



20 



These be Thy faithful children, Lord, 

The gleaners of the field; 
The golden-loaded wains are gone 

With all the harvest's yield; 
Yet some few scattered straws are left, 

Which diligence may find; 
A thousand sheaves he took away 

That left not one behind. 

Across the stubble fields I hear 

Sweet revelry and din. 
As when the reaper to his barns 

Draws his last wagon in ; 
He thanks Thee, Lord, with merriment 

And custom-honored praise. 
While round about his naked fields 

The gleaners go their ways. 

Small thought has he for those who pinch 

And wear their lives away. 
With just enough of strength and hope 

To keep the wolf at bay; 



imillet'0 ''0lmm^*' 



His is the lot of better blood 

Than flows in common veins; 
For him, O Lord, Thy sun doth shine 

And fall Thy gentle rains. 

What matters it when winds do howl 

And snow fills all the sky, 
That others huddle in their huts 

To hunger, freeze, and die? 
Has he not used his talent well. 

And thanked Thee morn and night? 
Dost Thou not shield him v/ith Thy love 

And clothe him with Thy might? 

I w^onder, Lord, if Thou shouldst come 

When this our harvest ends, 
Wouldst Thou be found v/here barns are full 

Or where the gleaner bends? 
Thou soughtest not in places high 

For men to follow Thee, 
But where the fisher cast his nets 

In quiet Galilee. 

And well I know wert Thou again 

To seek for friendly hearts. 
That Thou wouldst pass the manor house, 

And pass the city's marts, 



22 



MiUcV^ ''(Bleaner^** 



And say to some most lowly soul — 

Some gleaner of the field: 
Come, follow Me, and thou shalt glean 

A more abundant yield. 



23 



Co ti^e ©afjSfeg 

Hail! little sisters to the stars, 

That brightly dot the sod. 
As they in purple gardens bloom 

Around the throne of God; 
I never see your faces pure 

But I do muse thuswise: 
Ye are the gentle nuns of fields 

As stars are of the skies. 

And all do work His glory out 

Into a sweet design; 
Ye minister by day — at night 

Do all your sisters shine. 
No hour but has its bloom for us, 

Or sleeping or awake, 
And every moment nature plans 

Some beauty for our sake. 



24 



Ci^e meatier 

Twilight floods the cottage room, 
And the weaver at his loom, 
Bowing o'er his daily task, 
Doth a benediction ask. 
Passing by his lowly door, 
Thus I see him as of yore, 

Reverential, praying there. 
Thankful for his humble lot, 

Asking what his conscience dare, 
And all else desiring not. 

Once his heart a shuttle seemed 
In a crimson warp that gleamed. 

Weaving threads of purest gold. 
Weaving fabrics like the east, 
When is spread Aurora's feast. 

Now, alas! the loom is old. 
And the weaver bent and gray, 
Like some ghost of yesterday, 
All the cunning of his hand 
But a dream of lost command, 
While the light, once spurring him, 
Flickers and is growing dim. 
25 



Clje iHMcaber 



And the golden threads are gone, 
And the crimson warp of Dawn 
Much has faded, it appears. 
In the passing of the years. 
Till it looks no longer bright. 
Crossed by shadows of the night; 
Only here and there a star 
Scattered through it from afar, 
Dropt upon it from the skies. 
As some gift of paradise 
Comes to cheer the weaver old 
In his chamber bare and cold — 
Just a snowfiake through the roof 
Sifted in upon his Vv^oof ; 
Or, if season of the spring, 
Like some sweet enchanted thing 
Wafted in by fragrant air — 
Just a blossom here and there 
From his ancient apple-tree. 
Thus the weaver you may see 

Toiling for his daily bread, 
Should you chance to pass the door 
Of his cottage on the moor. 

All his old companions dead, 
He but lingers, patient, calm, 
Till the Master's gentle palm, 
Laid upon his locks of snow. 
Bids him cease and with Him go. 
26 



^i)t SSIeaber 



We are weavers, one and all, 
And when Death at last shall call, 
Let him find us, where he may, 
Weaving fabrics dark or gay, 
Happy, happy in this truth: 
Hope is our immortal youth, 

Of which the bud is time. 
And that its deathless rose may bloom 
It struggles upward through the gloom 

To its own native clime. 



27 



Here, where the old sea moans, I wait, 

Not for my ships — they will not come- 
But just to smile once more at Fate 
And bear some bit of wreckage home. 



28 



m)t ^i^ell 



Once this shell did sleep 
By the azure deep 

Of the shining Caribee; 
Whitest sands its bed, 
Bending overhead 

Waved a slender cocoa tree. 

All the music sweet 
Of the sea did beat 

Through its rosy chambers fair — 
Wind and wave caress 
With coy loveliness, 

Kissing it to slumber there. 

Happy, happy shell! 
Dreaming, who can tell 

What bright dreams of summer peace? 
Dreaming till that hour 
Some despotic power 

Bade its joy forever cease. 

Exiled now it lies 
Far beyond its skies, 
29 



Just a beggar on my hearth, 
Sighing to be free, 
Sighing for the sea, 

Sighing for its vanished mirth. 

Clap it to your ear, 
You can faintly hear 

What its saddened soul doth say: 
'The sea, sea, sea. 
Give it back to me; 

Woe is mine so far away," 

Thus at times it seems 
My remembered dreams 

Beat against their prison's bar, 
Sighing for a shore 
They shall reach no more. 

Change hath blown my ship so far. 



30 



*)on8 of ti^t ^tDorD 

The armorer has lit his forge, 
And blows the bellows long, 
The while within his ridgy breast 

Flames up the fire of song. 
'And I will make a kingly sword, 

My country's foes shall feel; 
A blade shall battle for the Lord, 
And wound that it may heal. 
And clino' clanor clins:, 
The echoes far shall ring, 
As loud the hammers sing, 
The making of the sword." 

He takes a bar of metal pure 

And plunges in the flame; 
He calls upon his angel good 

And speaks a magic name. 
For in his heart he feels the need 

Of something more than skill — 
He feels the doing of a deed 

His brawny bosom thrill. 
And cling, clang, cling, 
His throbbing temples ring, 

31 



^mq of tfie S^ortr 



As in his visions sing 

The triumphs of the sword. 

And now he draws the iron forth, 

All glowing like the sun, 
A ray as dazzling as the fire 
The bold Prometheus won. 
Like Vulcan now he rains his blows 

Amid a shower of stars. 
And lo! in thought he sees his foes 
Far-fleeing in their cars. 

And cling, clang, cling. 
The anvil voices ring, 
As all the mountains sing 
The anthem of the sword. 

He shapes the brand with earnestness; 

Ke tempers in the stream ; 
It is the sword Excalibur 
He forges in his dream. 
And it shall circle in the fray 

A disk of lambent light, 
And it shall win the noisy day 
For honor and for right, 
As cling, clang, cling 
Its battle-thunders ring; 
And loud the victors sing 
The glory of the sword. 



32 



Song of tf)e SlDorb 



He pours his soul into the steel, 

The love of right and truth; 
He edges it with boundless zeal 

And burnishes with youth, 
Until like Eden's flaming sword 

It quivers in his hand, 
The shining edict of the Lord, 
To chasten and command. 
While cling, clang, cling, 
The stars together sing, 
As far the echoes ring 
The splendor of the sword. 



33 



€l)e l^oetjs 



How do crickets live in winter, 
With the juicy grasses dead, 

And each bubbling rill and fountain 
Frozen silent in its bed? 

How do crickets live in v/inter, 
For the very nipping cold? 

Delve they cannot any firesides 
In the icy-smitten mold. 

How do crickets live in summer? 

Ever busy with their songs, 
They do get no time for hoarding 

What to them by right belongs. 

And the sleety blast of autumn 
Finds them poor as in the spring; 

When the bees are snug and cozy. 
Crickets round the hive will sing. 

And the wealthy workers v/onder, 
As they sip their nectar sweet. 

How his happy, thriftless manner 
Gets the cricket aught to eat. 
34 



They are like unto our poets, 
Are these minstrels of the field, 

Little thought they give the morrow, 
So to-day some music yield. 

Little space have they for doing 
As their bustling brothers do. 

Theirs the godly gift and passion 
Just to sing the season through. 

And old Time, to somewhat pay them 
For the melody they make. 

Fills them with the joy of singing, 
Guards them all for beauty's sake. 



35 



Love's a fisher, don't forget; 
He will catch you in his net; 
He will drag you from the sea, 
Rob you of your liberty. 

Love's a dreamer, and for hours 
He will sit before the flowers, 
Peering deep into their eyes, 
Weeping tears and heaving sighs. 

Love's a tyrant on his throne, 
Frowning grandly o'er his own, 
Bidding men to go and come, 
Striking all his foemen dumb. 

Love's a diplomat sometimes. 
Smiling in the farthest climes — 
Now at Yeddo, now at Rome — 
Pleasing whom he serves at home. 

Love, in fact, is anything — 
Warrior, actor, serf, or king- 
In whatever mask he dress. 
Lord of sighs and happiness. 
36 



Almoner of life is he, 

And his largess — it is free; 

Stretch thy hand and thou shalt find 

Crowns or farthings— Love is blind! 



37 



Cl^e f ca^t 



Laughter gave a dinner fine, 
And I marveled much to see 

Every guest his opposite 
Had for vis-a-vis. 

There was Sorrov/ facing Joy, 
Pleasure smiling back at Pain; 

Faith serenely eying Doubt, 
Haughty, cold, and vain. 

There was Love with soulful eyes 
Looking calmly down on Hate; 

There was Greed with Charity 
For his holy mate. 

There was Anger, too, with eyes 
That were flaming like to fire; 

There Serenity ; also 
Virtue and Desire. 

Hope, forgetful of Despair, 
Melancholy wan and Cheer; 

Sweet Forgiveness and Revenge, 
Valor scorning Fear. 

38 



Jealousy with her green eyes, 
And glad, honest Trustfulness; 

Sympathy with soothing palm. 
Pride that wounds Distress. 

Honor, plumed, and shameless Shame; 

Fortune and Adversity; 
And yet others seated there 

In strange company. 

Laughter, rising in his place, 

Held his sparkling wine on high ; 
*'Drink, immortal ones!" he said; 
"Drain your goblets dry. 

*' Ye are children of the race; 
Every virtue hath its mate ; 
Mirth were not if tears were not 
Is the law of fate." 

Much I marveled at the feast 
And the language of mine host, 

Yet I could not him gainsay 
Seeing there my ghost. 



39 



afterglotn 



I pray that time full many years may bring, 

And round about us heap his flowers and 
snow, 

That we a-down the western slope may go, 
Cla?-ped hand in hand, as in that joyous spring 

Vv^hen first together we did learn to sing 
The songs of youth beside the river's flow; 
The songs our hearts unto the end shall know. 

If now no more the woodlands with them 



And we shall sit on many a golden eve 

Beside the fire, and dream of other days 
When we were young, and laugh a wrinkled 

laugh. 
Nor mourn, nor sigh that loud the winds do 
grieve. 
For thou shaltmore than multiply the Mays, 
And I the long Decembers count but half. 



40 



3!h ti)z dsramptan l^flljj 

At dawn I saw the shepherd lead 
His woolly flock from fold, 

And heard him pipe upon his reed 
A ditty old. 

Unto the upland fields he went, 
And there the livelong day 

To rock and wind and sky, content, 
He poured his lay. 

And when at eve he home returned 
To pen his flock for night. 

Still in his happy bosom burned 
The morn's delight. 

Nor when the storm his door around 
Raved like a demon strong 

Could it blot out the peaceful sound 
Of his glad song. 

A fountainhead of lympid mirth 

His spirit seemed to be. 
That from the very heart of earth 

Gushed pure and free. 
41 



In tSe d^rampi'an Jgi'lls 



And on I passed to other sights, 

To cities proud and old, 
Yet nowhere found the same delights 

As near that fold. 

For still I heard, above the roar 
Of wharf and mart and street, 

That morning lyric brightly pour 
Its music sweet. 

And often in my dreams I see 

That happy shepherd boy, 
And sip, ere waking prisons me, 

His cup of joy. 

Pipe on, thou rustic of the hills, 

Unknowing care or pain; 
'Tis right that they should reap the ills 

Who toil for gain. 

And right it is that he who dwells 
With nature and with truth 

Draws up from their eternal wells 
Immortal youth. 



42 



^ons for giune 

Half the time 'tis wishing 

June were here; 
Half the time recaUing 

Her career; 
Yet for half the roses 

That appear 
Who would not go sighing 

Half a year? 

Many months are tyrants 

To defeat, 
June's a shining princess 

All would greet, 
With the sun conspiring 

How to seat 
In our yearning bosoms 

What is sweet. 

Oh, that June were reigning 

All the year ! 
Oh, that roses ever 

Gave us cheer! 

43 



SonQ foe gune 



Oh, that hearts were strangers 

To a tear! 
Always gayly shiging: 

June is here! 

Therefore bid her welcome 

Like a queen, 
And around your temples 

Bind her green, 
Routing out old Sorrow; 
And from Laughter borrow 
Roses for to-morrow, 

And a sunny gleam 
That shall brightly last you 
Till the winter cast you 

June's unfading dream. 



44 



Co !^emor^ 



Star of memory, burning bright 

In the purple hours of night, 

Wilt thou never, never set, 

And so teach me to forget? 

All the joys of life are fled, 

All the blossoms long are dead, 

All the fields are dark and sere, 

Only thou and I are here, 

Only thou and I alone 

Hear the wandering winds that moan. 

And the sighing of the deep. 

Breaking on the shore of sleep 

"With its endless tale of grief. 

Life is long and joy is brief. 
And the farther that we go 
Dov/n into the vale of woe, 
Through the v^^eary, dreary wood 
In the realm of solitude, 
Thou, O star, dost brighter burn 
With the hopes that ne'er return. 
As upon an altar high, 
Heaped with thoughts that will not die, 
45 



^0 i^emorg 



Thou dost keep thy fires ablaze 
To the never-ending praise 
Of the sad Mnemosyne, 
Leaving only that to me 
Known as ashes — roses sweet, 
Charred and powdered in thy heat. 

Like a shadow in the blast. 
Haunting vainly all the past — 
Just a realmless worshiper, 
Seeking still the dreams that were — 
Hither, thither, beaten, blown, 
Down the lonely ways alone, 
I do wander — in thy light 
That doth emphasize the night, 
Making darkness visible. 
Showing heights from which I fell, 
Showing all the glooms outspread 
Sorrow treads, and still must tread. 

Cease, O star, to longer blaze 
With the light of other days. 
Hast thou not consumed entire 
Beauty's glory in thy fire? 
What! Can hope so mighty be 
It outlasts the husk of me? 
Quench thy splendor and depart; 
Thou hast seared my very heart; 

46 



Co Mcmorj) 



AH too long my soul has dreamed, 
All too long thy light has beamed 
The beacon of my breast; 
Sink, and let me be at rest; 
Quit thy region, and be gone; 
Bring me Lethe — or the dawn — 
Death's nepenthe — or the wine 
Of the olden days divine. 



47 



3!f 91 mm iStng 

If I were king, my wars should be 

But wars of roses; 
The only shield that men should bear 

But one of posies; 
The only weapons ladies' eyes 

And laughter merry; 
The only provinces to win, 

Lips like the cherry — 
If I were king. 

If I were king, no eye should weep, 

No heart should break ; 
Each warrior should a lady wed 

For her sweet sake. 
And when my last campaign v/as done 

I'd cease to reign, 
And hand my scepter o'er to Love 

And join his train — 

If I were king. 



48 



Sleeping 

I cannot think of her as one 

Among the silent dead, 
Since all her ways were sunny ways 

And to sweet laughter wed ; 
She may be sleeping — that is all — 

And in no earthly bed. 

Still, still her voice, my soul doth hear 

In winds that softly stir. 
And roses, glov/ing like the dawn, 

Are but the cheeks of her; 
These pansies imitate her eyes. 

Her breath this fragrant myrrh. 

And yet they say that she is dead, 

That I shall see no more, 
No more shall hear her laughter ring 

On any sea or shore ; 
That she is gone, forgetting me, 

And that my dream is o'er. 

Dull fools! Because they see her not 

They think I cannot see ; 
They call her dead; I only know 

Her soul is setted free, 
And though they heaped her under earth, 

She dwelleth still with me. 
49 



Co Slolliti? 



Hail! Jollity, thou mirth-provoking god; 

Henceforward let me worship at thy shrine, 
For I am loath to longer please the nod 

Of gloomy souls, and sick of their dark wine ; 
My palate thirsts for that bright draught of 
thine, 
Pressed from the grape full-ripened in the sun, 
And taught to sparkle with the golden shine 
Of stars, when first the happy air is won 
Aback to its divine and keen embrace ; 
Such wine, sweet wine, my lips no more would 
shun. 
If I may worship thee, and thou bestow thy 

grace. 
Thou merry, merry god, beloved of all the 
race! 

Long have I followed in the paths of gloom 

A giant shadow greater than a grief, 
And I have frowned to see a rosy bloom, 
And I have crowned me Vv'ith the nightshade 

leaf. 
Taught my sad soul the sorrow of the sheaf, 
so 



^0 f oUi'tg 

And nothing said about the joyous spring; 

So played to her the bright-dethroning thief 
That she is bare of every happy thing, 

Save this frail strength to humbly ask of thee 
That thou wilt shrive the barren heart I bring, 

And let it bound as once it gayly did in me 

When I was young, forsooth, and all my 
thoughts were free. 

'Tis done! Forgotten all my tears, I bow 

Before thy shrine, from every chain unbound ; 
And I would sing, a happy pasan now, 

To pipes and timbrels and all laughing sound 

Of wedded instruments, since I have found 
The way to happiness, and bless thy name, 

O Jollity! thou prince with roses crowned. 
Whose sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks pro- 
claim 

Thee lord and master over circumstance, 
Whose law is mirth. Forever grow thy fame! 

Until, deep-drinking of thy sun-surpassing 
glance, 

The world wax young again, as her bright 
dreams advance. 

To-morrow will I come and praise thee more, 
At morn, at noon, and when the eve is near. 

Each day from now. And I will learn thy lore, 
And how to mix the hemlock for old Fear; 
51 



^0 f oUitp 

And I wall sing each day a song of cheer 
To honor thee and keep my spirit gay 

Against the cruel winter of the year, 
When roses sleep in their chill tombs, and day 

Forgets to smile, and loud the winds do blow, 
That when mute Death would summon me 
away 

With him, serene, content, to his dark house 
I go, 

A smile upon my lips and all my soul aglow. 



52 



J^Olll^l^OCSjS 



Here tarried, long ago, 

A savage band, 
Down-thrusting their slim spears 

Into the sand. 

Then slept those hardy men, 

And when they woke. 
Behold their clustered spears 

To blossom broke! 

And so, wide-eyed with awe, 

They marveled hours, 
That instruments of war 

Should turn to flow^ers. 

As though their silent foes 
Had slipped their tombs. 

And v/rapt each piercing wand 
With crimson blooms. 

So writ forgiveness bright. 

For men to see 
That vanquished souls may win 

A victory. 

S3 



?i?oU|)i)ock0 



So thought those hardy men, 
And fought no more, 

Each planting his own spear 
By his own door. 

Such are the hollyhocks, 
That once were spears; 

God grant that they no more 
Weep bloody tears. 

But that forever they 

Drop only dew, 
And that to look on them 

Bring peace to you. 



54 



Immortal child ! — a tiny fellow — 

A marble bust — 
The one that carved you, Donatello, 

Is merely dust. 

Man can create for future ages, 

Yet he can be 
Naught but a shadow on their pages — 

A memory. 

I close my eyes and see the faces 

Of great ones dead, 
Their spirits haunt their favorite places; 

They are not fled. 

And so, about this little fellow^ 

I often see 
The spirit bright of Donatello, 

Move musingly. 



55 



Who's that little, little man 
Looks so like a puritan, 
Clad in sober dress of gray, 
Leggings tight and cutaway? 
Spectacles, I think, he wore. 
And must be at least threescore. 
Looks a deacon every inch. 
Though he were about to clinch 
With a final wise remark 
The dimensions of the ark. 
Might have been a doctor old 
Newly given a wrist to hold. 
Counting with a solemn air 
How the pulse is beating there. 
Judge, perhaps, was he, in gown, 
Handing an opinion down 
Why the laws should bluer be. 
That to smile is perfidy. 
Whatsoever him you call, 
He's a true professional. 
Tell me, who's the little man. 
This distinguished puritan? 
56 



^{je d^ragsfjoppec 



Sage he looked as Socrates 

With his pupils round his knees, 

Sitting while the skies did pour 

Drenching rains about the door 

Of his home — which was a weed. 

So I saw him, so did read. 

But behold him in the sun! 

Full of antics, full of fun, 

Mirth personified and joy, 

Happy, happy as a boy. 

An Arabian acrobat. 

Turning, tumbling like a cat, 

How he snaps his dusty wings, 

Flies and hops and leaps and springs, 

With the merry month in tune. 

Just as though that he were June! 

See him! see him! you'll allow 

He's no solemn stickler now. 

What has he to ever do 

With a law of any hue? 

Think you he has time to fence 

As to Noah's measurements? 

Has he any time to make 

Pill or powder for an ache? 

I mistook him, that is clear, 

Now I see him playing here. 

Nature's antic sybarite 

Of the meadows green and bright, 

57 



Ci&e <3!5frasj3f)cipper 



Pleasure's self or pleasure's page, 
Sulking, when the tempests rage, 
Not unlike his brother, man, 
Till he seems a puritan. 



58 



tBoict^ of tl)e min\i 

The wind hath many voices; in the spring 
'Tis soft as roses' petals, and as sweet, 
And gently whispers when we chance to meet 
It in our garden paths; and it will sing 
For us like troubadour or lovelorn king 
At some rich casement in a moon-retreat, 
Where sleeps his fair one. In the summer's 
heat 
It hath a voice with yet a happy ring. 
The autumn hears a sadder, mellow note, 
As though it breathed across a rifted lute — 
A voice of loneliness, and loss, and tears, 
That, when old winter comes, doth roaring 
float 
Above its grief v/ith gusts of madness, mute 
To all save rage as wild and deep as 
Lear's. 



59 



a ?©ream 

I dreamed a happy dream last night: 
You came and kissed mine eyes, 

And I arose and walked with you 
Through groves of paradise. 

And time was not, and change unknown, 

Immortal youth was ours, 
And our bright task was but to love 

Among the gracious flowers. 

My heart did beat with joy so great 

That I awoke, to find — 
A path of thorns, and all my bliss 

Borne down an autumn wind. 

Oh, hollow, hollow was the day. 

And every field bereft. 
For that which should have passed away 

Was all that Time had left. 



60 



Drink to Einar Tamberskelver. 

When he was like to die 
He bade them bear his shadow 

Beneath the open sky ; 
And called him for his arrows, 

And called him for his bow, 
Which none save he in Norway 

The strength to bend could show. 
Since of the stubborn yew-tree 

'Twas seasoned well and long. 
And twice the size of others 

And fourfold times as strong. 
They bore him to the sunshine, 

They did as they were told. 
They brought his bow and arrows 

To that gray viking old; 
He clasped them to his bosom. 

He kissed them o'er and o'er; 
He held them like lost brothers 

Returned unto his door; 
He wept upon his treasures 

As he had been a child, 
6i 



C^e ilast ^rrolo 



And then a thought possessed him; 

His face grew stern and wild, 
And underneath his eyebrows 

The fires of battle burned, 
As for a lordly moment 

His old-time strength returned. 
And from his bed arising. 

Unto his good bow-cord 
He set a shining arrow, 

Arid looked upon the fiord; 
Looked out upon the mountains 

And on his loving friends. 
Like some sore-stricken eagle 

When all his glory ends; 
Then his great strength e»xerted 

And drew the arrow back 
Until the bow was doubled 

So it was like to crack ; 
And as the arrow upward 

Like silver lightning flew. 
He said, with deep emotion : 

"Ye lucent fields of blue! 
Ye halls of far Valhalla! 

Thou starry-spangled dome! 
Accept this final arrow 

And let it find a home. 
For with it flies the spirit 

Of Einar to his king — 

62 



iKf)t Hast .^rroto 



Great Olaf of the Northland, 
To whom my heart doth clin^ 

And Einar Tamberskelver 

Fell dead upon the ground; 
Upon the seas or mountains 

None has the arrow found, 
Since in the frieze of heaven 

It quivers like a reed. 
The autograph of Einar, 

The symbol of his deed. 
Announcement of his coming, 

And emblem of his right 
To tread the high Valhalla 

With all true souls of might. 



Were I a robin, dearest, 
My matin song should be 

As full of tender sweetness 
As his is from the tree; 

But I'm a common sparrow 
That hobbles down the way ; 

My gift of song is narrow, 
Yet ever would I sing 
One long eternal spring 

And one adoring lay. 

» 

Were I a flower, dearest, 

Upon a stately stalk, 
I'd fill the air with perfume 

When forth you came to walk ; 
But hid amidst the grasses, 

A lowly violet, 
I pray the soul that passes 

May touch with tip of wing. 

And I immortal spring 

To nevermore forget. 



6^ 



O weed! when all the fiowers are gone, 
Still dost thou bravely hold thine own, 

And in the cold December dawn 
Stand forth undaunted and alone. 

A gentle nun of gentle deeds, 

Above the levels of the snow. 
Thou still dost stretch thy hand with seeds. 

And feed thy starving sparrows so. 

The rose is sweet, and we who see. 
Stoop down and kiss its dreamy eyes, 

While a diviner grace in thee. 
Unheeded and unfriended, dies. 

When summer ruled, and gaudy blooms 
Enticed the eye, thou wast forgot, 

A beggar in the wayside glooms ; 
I saw thee, and I loved thee not. 

But nov/ I see thee once again 

With eyes whose blinding scales are cast, 
Still poor, but like a prince of men. 

Refusing not the crumbs thou hast. 
65 



Oh, the heart of the flaming rose, 

The eyes of the marguerite, 
And the lips of the daffodil, 

And the brow of the lily sweet! 
I feast my soul all day. 

And I dream — I dream all night; 
But I cannot — cannot drink my fill 

Of their supreme delight. 

And the song of the robin glad, 

The voice of the meadow rill. 
The swallows under the thatch, 

And the wind about the hill — 
They sing — they sing at morn. 

And they sing — they sing at night; 
As I listen — listen — and so catch 

The language of delight. 

And, oh, my soul has grown to be 

A harp of many strings. 
Whereon the fragrant summers play 

And all the budded springs. 

66 



CJe 2iminti::?ijarp 



I dwell with men no more, 

As I dream the live-long night; 

As I revel — revel all the day 
In gardens of delight. 

And when the stormy winter comes, 

Alone in the leafless tree, 
I still repeat the music soft 

That summer taught to me. 
And thus the gloom I cheer, 

With my themes from morn till night, 
As I whisper — whisper through the croft 

The music of delight. 



67 



a Cl^angcle^si face 

I met thee once, and only once, 
But since 'that hour I've grown 

To see no face that is not thine 
And dream one dream alone. 

I know not if the time shall come 

Wherein we meet again. 
But I shall hold my vision dear, 

And keep it bright till then. 

I fancied once I saw thee, sweet, 
The same as that first time; 

The matchless glory of thy face 
Moved all my soul to rhyme. 

But then I thought: It cannot be, 

I met her years ago ; 
The golden hair must be to-day 

As white as driven snow. 

And then I cursed the thought; to me 

Immortal youth is thine. 
If not upon the earth, at least 

Within this heart of mine. 
68 



Where heroes' blood is shed, 
Where sleep our soldier dead, 
With long acclaim and tears, 
And thrill of tender fears. 
With cannon roaring loudly 
And music soaring proudly, 
Unfurl our banner bright. 
And on its sacred height 
Forever let it blaze, 
The oriflamme of praise! 

Where shall Old Glory fly 

And shake its stars on high? 

Where sleep Columbia's sons 

Who fell beside her guns, 

Where death could daunt them never; 

Forever and forev,er, 

To mark their great endeavor. 

To guard their holy dust. 

To sanctify their trust, 

Old Glory proud shall wave 

Resplendent o'er the brave! 

69 



Where sleep Columbia's dead, 
Where her bold sons have bled, 
That spot's American 
To every loyal man; 
And there Old Glory streaming, 
With all her stars a-gleaming, 
And there the eagle screaming. 
To watch above their dreaming 
Until the end of time, 
Triumphant and sublime 
The flag we love shall fly, 
Or every patriot die! 



70 



Co a Crlcfiet 

Cricket, chirping in the grass, 
Nick the moments as they pass 

With thy song of cheer; 
Thoughtless of the coming cold, 
That the year is growing old 

And that death is near. 

Let the robins fly away, 

And the heavens turn to gray; 

Sing! and hope shall bless; 
With the falling of the leaf 
And the binding of the sheaf 

Weave thy happiness. 

Ere the winter days do come 
Let me take thee, cricket, home; 

Welcome to my hearth; 
We will sing the season through, 
Just as though the skies were blue. 

Cloistered close with mirth. 

Shy Arcadian, merry, bright. 
Soon shall pass away the night. 
And our spirits thrive, 



Co a orndtet 



Far beyond the tempest's reach, 
Feasting on the liquid speech 
Of some magic hive. 

High shall flame the fagot fire. 
Thou shalt wake thy little lyre 

Freely and in peace, 
While I, dreaming near the blaze, 
Fancy that I hear some lays 

Wafted up from Greece. 

Happy, dozing in the heat, 

Thou shalt dream of fields of wheat 

And of many sheaves. 
Come with me, and thou shalt sing 
When returning swallows wing 

Round about the eaves. 

Come, and thou shalt live an age; 
Thou shalt be an honored sage, 

I thy pupil kind. 
Drinking in thy golden lore. 
Till, like thee, I own no more 

Than a peaceful mind. 



72 



I saw a bee so tangled in 

The petals of a flower, 
To gain his freedom once again 

He struggled for an hour; 
So love within my heart did strive 

Throughout a summer's day, 
And, like the bee, the sweetest there, 

He, flying, bore away. 



73 



atutumn ^ong 



With the fading of the leaf 

Comes the gathering of the sheaf 
And the squeaking and the creaking of the 
wain, 

And the jolly miller grinds 

To the sighing of the winds 
And the patter and the clatter of the rain. 

With the fading of the leaf 

The days are growing brief, 
To the hedges and the sedges music's lost. 

While a quiet sadness fills 

All the spaces of the hills 
For the splendor of a tender dream that's 
crossed. 

With the fading of the leaf 

The wind will turn to grief, 
And it treasures minor measures of a rhyme. 

And it harbors thoughts of gloom 

For the Summer in her tomb. 
All her glory but a story told by Time. 



gout]^ anD age 

Ever to lie under the eye 

Of the sun; 
Ever to hear, with cadence clear, 

The brook run ; 

Ever to feel the soft winds steal 

Through the place; 
Ever to know that violets grow 

Near your face ; 

Ever to hold visions of gold, 

Born of Truth; 
Ever to be happy and free — 

Such is youth, 

Nearing the end, ever to bend 

On a staff; 
Mile after mile, never a smile 

Nor a laugh; 

Winter and cold thronging the wold, 

Thoughts of death; 
Blindness and care, snowy-white hair, 

Labored breath ; 
75 



Fcutf) mti age 



Never a hope, joyous to ope 
Bright the page; 

Nearing the tomb, nothing but gloom- 
Such is age. 



76 



Bright vestal of the glamoured eventide, 
Sweet star that to our plodding world appears 
Pure-raimented in splendor of the spheres, 

Beholding thee we cast our cares aside. 

And in thy glory our worn spirits hide; 

Put off cur sorrows and their tribute fears ; 
No world-engendered theme incites to tears, 

What time thou walkest up the heavens wide. 

Night after night thine altar light doth burn, 
Night after night we hail thy coming, star, 

And from thy calm and steadfast purpose learn 
How little all our boasted triumphs are — 

Dreams, bubbles, butterflies, that flit and flee. 

While we at heart are something kin to thee. 



77 



3In ti^e t^ati^ of ti^e moK 

All night long in my garret room 

I tremble with cold and fear, 
For in the dingy hall outside 

A soft footfall I hear; 
The black, grim wolf of poverty, 

With fangs so sharp and white, 
Has made his lair beneath my stair. 

And haunts me day and night. 

When the candle burns low he comes 

And keeps my soul awake ; 
I hear him gnaw my batten door, 

And its frail hinges shake. 
I quake with dread in my poor bed, 

Since he may win at last, 
And glut his hunger once for all — 

The wolf that gnaws so fast. 

And when the dawn comes creeping in. 

The while to work I go, 
He follows me a step behind; 

I cannot shun him so. 



78 



In tf)e latfj of tt)e mRoli 



And then I hear the tempter near: 
*'The wolf is on your track; 

May I protect you from his fangs?" 
I fly and look not back. 

And where I earn my pittance small 

Again I hear a voice: 
'The wolf is crouching at your side; 

Is he your friend from choice?" 
Great God! is labor then a lure 

That fiends may snare their prey? 
And round I turn and thank the wolf 

That keeps such hounds at bay. 

But, oh! the hunger and the cold, 

And, oh! the grinding pain. 
And, oh! the bitter, bitter tears 

That fall like dreary rain; 
To think the years are flying fast 

And lives like mine must be. 
With never one glad burst of sun 

To brighten poverty. 

For, oh ! the stream is dark and deep. 

And, oh! but life is dear, 
For all the thorns that pierce the morns 

And make the evenings drear. 



79 



In ti)e f atf) of t|)e mLolt 



I pray for strength to drive the wolf 
From underneath my stair; 

But should he stay, Almighty God, 
Give me the strength to bear! 

Feast, Croesus, at your golden board, 

And drink your sparkling wine; 
Touch not the garments of the poor, 

Nor hear when they repine. 
But wonder not when they do faint 

And in the struggle fall. 
Since Want is such a hungry wolf, 

And* oh! your crumbs so small! 



80 



i^oto iBuDiS to TBlojssiom 'Bt:cafi 

Now buds to blossom break 

And odors sweet abound ; 
The bee from his long winter's sleep's awake 

And buzzing round. 

The heart of nature leaps 

With happy ardor new, 
And every spear of grass each evening keeps 

Its tryst with dew. 

Forgive thy worshiper 

If off his mask he lays, 
And feels within his bosom's temple stir 

A song of praise. 

Oh, chill him not the while 

The buds begin to wake, 
But let him, thirsting, drink of thy sweet smile 

For Love's dear sake. 



8i 



Oh, wearied, tossed upon Thy breast. 
Dear Lord, accept me, pray; 

Too far from home my heart has been, 
Too long away. 

This remnant take — 'tis all that's left— 

And make me whole again; 
Not for myself, but for the good 

Of other men. 

Do as Thou wilt, and spare me not 

The biting of the rod ; 
So I may feel I live again 

A child of God. 

Good Shepherd, let my feet once more 

Thy loving pastures know; 
The mountains all are tempest swept, 

And deep with snow. 

Thy fold is love; I long to feel 

The pressure of Thy arms. 
And lose in Thee forevermore 

The soul's alarms. 
82 



€]^e 'Bee 

In his hive, on winter nights, 
What my little bee delights? 
Many dreams of many blooms, 
Nectars sweet and fragrant glooms; 
Many gardens spread to view 
Daily you are sailing through ; 
Mountains, valleys, meadows, trees, 
Are your islands and your seas. 
Never any prize you miss 
Of unnumbered victories. 

Hardy pirate, keen, alert. 
Never once a blossom hurt — 
Only made to yield a bit 
Of the richness given it — 
Who can blame you if you tax 
This for honey, that for wax? 
Hot freebooter on the quest. 
Cutlass ready if close pressed. 
None can name you craven knight, 
Fleeing rather than to fight. 

And for all your eager strife, 
Yours is not a miser's life; 



In the shelter of your den — 
You're a generous fellow then, 
Turning o'er your booty to 
Those who rightly wheedle you; 
Open-handed, like the Cid, 
Robin Hood and Captain Kidd, 
You believe the poor should live; 
Most of what you get you give. 

Cruise away in summer hours, 
Taxing all the many flowers; 
Take your pleasure while you may; 
Work anon, but dream to-day; 
Oft recount your conquests many. 
Spring shall find you without any. 
Sleep and dream on winter nights; 
Yours are also our delights; 
Honey, honey in the comb — 
The capture and the bringing home! 



84 



%n^av 



Again the fields are green, 
And bursting buds are seen 

Appareling the trees; 
The robins hop about, 
And from their hives are out 

The long-beleaguered bees. 

Forever earth returns 
Unto her youth and earns 

Rich payment for her tears; 
Within her cheek there glows 
The while-departed rose 

That sweetens all the years. 

Age, to us, is beauty lost; 
Come, look upon the frost 

Encroaching on our brows; 
For once our youth is gone, 
No juvenating dawn 

Reanimates the boughs. 

And so we fall asleep, 
And in the speechless deep 

85 



Of Nature's wisdom trust, 
Contented just to know 
The sweetest buds that blow 

Are rooted in the dust. 



86 



Clje (15osijsip)5 



I told my love unto the dew 

That vanished in the air; 
I told it to a little bird 

That warbles everywhere. 

At eve I told it to a rose, 

And said: "The secret keep." 

Quoth she: "Beware and have a care 
I whisper in my sleep." 

An adept grown, I told my love 

To her whom I adore ; 
She smiled and said: "It must be so; 

I've heard it thrice before." 



87 



Love was fishing in a brook; 

For a hook 

He'd the horn 

Of a thorn ; 

For his line 
Just a single golden hair 

Robbed from mine. 

"Love," I said, "how do they bite?' 

"Not a mite; 

They're asleep, 

Hidden deep 

In the cool 
And quiet amber twilights 

Of the pool." 

"Love, your baiting let me see." 

'Twas a bee. 

"Try," I said, 

"This instead." 

And I gave 
A little crumpled rose-leaf 

To the wave. 
88 



Uobe's dFisi)mg flesson 



And no sooner was his hook 

In the brook 

Than a trout 

Pulled he out, 

Pretty thing! 
** Never, never bait a thorn 

With a sting." 



89 



apoonl(Q]^t 



Lo! Evening comes unto her chambers sweet; 

The fields lie charmed, the rose in fra- 
grance sleeps, 
The cricket chirps from his secure retreat, 

The brook laughs on among its reedy deeps, 

And in the grove the nightingale outweeps 
Her plaint, and fireflies dot the dusk with gold, 

While overhead each star her vigil keeps; 
The moon looks on from out a cloudy fold 
Like some kind face that smiles above a legend 
old. 

Hour after hour the glamour doth increase, 
The magic grows, the soft enchantment looms, 

Till Mab the parchment of her fairy lease 
Unrolls and awes the silver-sandaled glooms, 
Proclaims her sway, and loi from countless 
blooms 

Come forth the happy fairies, far and near. 
To dance about, while from forsaken tombs 

Of ample trees lithe Dryad forms appear. 

And from the purple pools the shining sprites 

uprear. 

90 



The fair world lives in many a prank and song, 

And many a myth by mortals counted dead 
Awakes and wanders with bright feet along, 

While many a voice to thoughtless listener 
fled 

To Fancy whispers where the moon is spread ; 
While old Greed sleeps upon his yellow hoard 

And restless dreams of grasping hopes unfed, 
And of his w^ealth in hidden corners stored, 
And ships that only touch where ruddy Gold 
is lord. 

Slow wanes the night into the budding dawn; 

And who shall say a wonder hath been 
wrought? 
No sign is seen, the revelry is gone; 

In wood and field no slightest clew is caught 

Of sprite or fay to feed the passing thought; 
The rose is sphinx, and babel is the stream. 

The tree a diplomat that telleth nought — 
Except to him who readeth by the beam 
Of starry-lit Romance the missal of her dream. 



91 



3!n)Scnpt(ou 



jFor a jFountnin to tlir jHrmovp of 

Here love inscribes oroal Tusilala's name, 
Anil glory guartls his monuniental fame; 
He came antl went, aiul we this t'lumtain raise 
'I'hal men may drink ti> his eternal praise. 
His thonghts were like this crystal water, pure, 
A fount o^ music that shall lono- emlure. 
Then come, partake, for in this deathless sprins;- 
His spirit dwells and all his fancies sing. 



92 



IRouttO 

Let the maid that lonely sighs 
I»/earn a pleasant measure, 

She shall find it more than gold 
Or Braganza's treasure. 

Let her learn it, let her sing it, 

Laugh the tears away; 
Sorrow, sorrow — let them bring it. 

Oh, some other day! 

I do like to see a joy 

Chasing after grief. 
Laughing like a rosy boy 

Tumbling on a sheaf. 

Let the nightingale 

Hug the hungry thorn, 
Some will never fail 

Anything forlorn. 

Out into the sun ! 

Weep no more o' nights; 
Laugh and sing and run. 

Welcome sweet delights! 
93 



91 TSlamt Ci^ee j^ot 

My thoughts by day, my dreams by night, 

In one sweet circle move, 
Whose center is my source of light, 

Whose influence is love. 

Four seasons have I like the earth. 

For I am mortal, dear, 
And thou must sometimes cloud the mirth 

That is my heaven here. 

Yet it is well that roses fall 

And that the pansy dies; 
The heart again may rear them all 

For later sacrifice. 

I blame thee not when wintry winds 

About my garden run ; 
Somehow the blossom always finds 

The temple of the sun. 



94 



%\)t mainmt ^m&t 

A mouse has come to live with me, 

And when the house is still, 
And when the shadows of the night 

Creep 'round the window-sill, 
I hear his nibble in the wall. 

Or from his hole he looks, 
And runs about the cheery hearth 

To scan my chimney nooks. 

Before the fire I sit and dream. 

And watch his dainty play. 
And dare not move a hand or foot 

Lest he should run away. 
He only asks the crumbs that fall, 

The warmth I do not miss. 
The wainscot shelter for his home — 

And shall I bar him this? 

Say, what am I, who, in God's house. 
Ask, oh, so much of worth. 

That I should shut my humble door 
To this poor child of earth? 

95 



Cf)e ^iHainscot i^louse 



Are pride and greed and vanity 

So noble in God's sight 
That I should drive away the mouse, 



And sit alone to-night? 



Stay, little friend, so long as time 

Doth give thee life to live, 
And what I have for one so small 

Let me with honor give. 
Thy heart, I know, hath never sinned. 

And is to Him more dear 
Than all the majesty of kings. 

Hedged round by bow and spear. 

The Sparrow's Friend is also thine, 

And should I slay thee, mouse. 
Could I complain with conscience clear 

Did ruin seize my house? 
My roof is thine. Let twilight's hour 

Full often summon thee 
To teach me more of brotherhood 

And keener sympathy. 



96 



among ^t "Boofe^ 

Survey my broad domain; no petty state 
Of ermined king, and doomed to sink away 
Into the Lethe of a yesterday; 
No Egypt old, nor yet Assyria great; 
Nor Greece, nor Rome, nor where the oceans 
roll 
Round Indian isles and thunderous navies 

spread — 
But an immortal realm, to Genius wed: 
Behold! a thousand Edens of the soul 

That flash their deathless glories far and 
v/ide. 
Al Raschid's treasure, Croesus' wealth, the 
glow 
Of Zehran splendor and Palmyran pride 
Sleep in the dateless dust of long ago, 
Unworth the fee to one Shakespearean line. 
To Sidney's sweetness or to Shelley's wine. 



97 



aaoicelesJSJ ^ong 

In dreams I wrote a lyric fine 

That all the world did praise; 
And felt upon my brow descend 

The cool and gracious bays. 
Then I awoke; the room was cold; 

The song, forgotten quite, 
Was mine no more; the world's applause 

Had vanished with the night. 

That sweetest song I cannot bring 

From slumber's realm away, 
But nightly I do read it there, 

No other mortal may ; 
'Tis of the spirit, innermost. 

And innermost belongs. 
The love, the light, the dream of life, 

The voiceless song of songs. 



98 



P'ull fourscore winters on his head 
Freeze not his genial eye, 

Since fourscore summers in his heart 
Its depths are kindled by. 

The many wrinkles of his face 
Are paths of mirth and care ; 

The heavy hand of time, forsooth, 
Has etched with lightness there. 

And though the roses all are gone, 

Their spirit dwells anear, 
And haunts the evening of his smile 

As they themselves were here. 

His laugh still seems attuned to joy, 

Although in minor key, 
As it were echo now and then 

To some sweet memory. 

Not all the losses of the years 
Have smothered love in him, 

But only burned away the mists 
That made his pathway dim. 
99 



^n <©lti Mm 



Within his soul no dross alloys 

The gold of Age's star; 
Within his heart contending thoughts 

Make no disastrous war. 

Patience, peace, and charity 

Within his breast abide. 
And thus, composedly, he waits 

The ebbing of the tide. 



lOO 



at ^ot* 

I hope, sometime, to put this toil from me, 

Shake off these cares, and in some region 
mild 

Live one fair dream of all that have beguiled. 
Nature! What pleasure would it sweetly be 
To hear the endless music of the sea; 

To roam, untrammeled, o'er thy mountains 
wild 

And wander in thy forests like a child 
Let loose to play and lord of liberty! 

And yet, if this fond dream be but a dream. 

And I at last within the furrow fall. 
Let me not faint, but steadfast prove and 

strong. 
Within my soul the sound of ocean's stream 
Upon his shores, and in my heart the call 
From peak and wood, and on my lips their 
song. 



M^ciplintH 



Love once caught his mother's doves, 

Plucked them every one. 
Quoth he: "When her team she sees, 

I'll enjoy the fun." 
But his merriment was brief; 

Venus quickly spied. 
Ordered him into the shafts, 

And the lash applied. 
Said she: "When on Gentleness 

Love inflicteth pain, 
It is time that he should know 

Bridle, bit, and rein." 



102 



Ci^e finger 



As Love came up the morning hill, 

A song upon his lips, 
More welcome than the breeze was he 

To long-becalmed ships. 

I bade him sit beside me there 

And sing me ditties three, 
Since when my soul is all his own, 

Nor would again be free. 

I follow, follow where he goes, 

Unto my dying day, 
Oh, wretched if I hear him not. 

Full happy if I may. 

The noon is past, the night comes on. 

He carols, carols still, 
And I shall hear his changeless voice 

All down the evening hill. 



103 



Itttle T5tot))n§ of t^e (E-rajiSJ 

Little brothers of the grass, 

Scatter not when I do pass; 

What have you to fear from me 

That you thus should swiftly flee, 

Like some dwellers in the wood 

At approach of Robin Hood? 

Did I ever give you cause, 

Harm you, break your meadow laws, 

Rob you of a single thing, 

That you thus should take to wing, 

Leap and flutter from my path? 

Think you I could harbor wrath 

Or forget myself so far 

As to play the cruel czar, 

And you exile to some gloom 

That should prove your bitter doom? 

Kingless dwellers of the mead. 
Citizens of grass and weed, 
Communistic ruralites. 
Well I know you have your rights 
Gods and men are bound to own 
Are yours justly and alone. 
104 



ILittlc iDfotijecs of tljc (Brass 

Have no fear that I shall be 
Tyrant to your jollity; 
I am democratic, too, 
And no more a king than you. 
Though by fortune given more 
Of the world's delusive store. 
Hence it is my duty, friends. 
For my boon to make amends ; 
And instead of using might 
To o'erturn another's right, 
I were traitor to my trust 
If from out the w^ayside dust 
Gave I not a wounded bee 
Back to life and liberty; 
Or so much as harmed a wing 
Of a single meadow thing. 

Therefore scatter not when I 
Chance to pass your coverts by ; 
We are brothers — I with rhyme 
Stretching out the summer-time. 
You with pleasure much the same, 
You for fun and I for fame. 
Bubbles, bubbles, gain we both, 
Which is better take no oath ; 
Time makes havoc of the two. 
Seals with winter me and you; 
Nature writes no epitaphs; 
He who sings and he who laughs, 
105 



Hittle ^rotfters of tije (Bragg 



She, impartial, folds to rest 
In the haven of her breast. 

Little brothers, scatter not, 
But companions let us be, 
Happy, happy as the free. 

And together be forgot. 



io6 



€ltiorat>o 

I swore that for a rounded year 

I would not see' her face, 
But that to Fortune I would kneel 

And win her golden grace. 
Oh, foolish me, to vow the like! 

When not a day was by, 
Again I sat at Dora's feet 

And looked in Dora's eye. 



107 



Summer is gone, and with her went away 

Hope, ever delicate and frail, 

And, like a lily, pale. 
Born with the blossoms, Hope was bright as 
they. 

And when unto the earth they fell. 

She bade them all farewell. 

Oh, long before the time when peaches burn, 

Or apples mellow in the shine, 

Or grapes plump out with wine. 
Did Hope her mortal mission fully learn. 

And so she drooped in early hour 

And perished in her bower. 

Summer is gone, and with her went away 

Hope, ever delicate and frail, 

And, like a lily, pale. 
Winter is here. Will it forever stay? 

The snov/ lies deep upon her grave, 

Above, the bare bouehs wave. 



io8 



October's here; the feathered seed 

Floats slowly o'er the hazy mead, 

From place to place, through scenes of gold. 
Like Homer's phantom, gray and old, 

Blown here and there by paltry need. 

The gossamer binds up the weed 
With ghostly hands, and leaves are freed 
From birdless boughs, and winds are cold; 
October's here. 

The bees are gone; they pay no heed, 
In their warm hives, to hearts that bleed. 

One voice alone is overbold — 

The cricket on the dreary wold, 
Still hopeful, pipes upon his reed. 
October's here. 



109 



(Brantimotl^et: 

Slowly, upon the kitchen floor 

And in the firelight's glow, 
On winter evenings long and cold, 

Grandmother's step would go. 
With her right hand she turned the wheel, 

The other held the wool. 
While to a merry, humming song 

My heart beat fast and full. 

And as she spun, her mellow voice 

Was ringing clear and sweet. 
And in her tread I heard the tramp 

"Of soldiers' marching feet. 
For she outpoured in measured tones 

Great Homer's lofty line 
That told of mighty Priam's fall 

And Helen's face divine. 

Or she would quote from Pollok's lay, 

How Byron's lonely soul 
Was brother to the rocks and storms 

And ocean's wintry roll ; 



(gi:antimoti)er 



Or yet of Hohenlindeii's field — 
Of drums that beat at night, 

And how the pure, untrodden snow 
Grew crimson with the fight. 

Till, listening, I enraptured grew 

An aspen to her voice. 
And chilled or glowed as she essayed 

The poem of her choice. 
Ah, those were days of wonderment. 

Of youthful hope and fire, 
When all the fibers of my soul 

Were tense as Sappho's lyre. 

Oh, this, all this, was years ago, 

When I was but a boy, 
Yet often now my pulses leap 

With that remembered joy; 
Again I see, again I hear 

Grandmother at her wheel, 
And to her magic numbers thrill 

And all her power feel. 

Her rhythmic voice, her kindling eye 

Arouse me here to-night. 
And her sweet face in halo shines 

And fills me with delight. 



C^rantiinotljcr 



For me she lives, although the years 

Are piled upon her tomb, 
And still I hear her measured step 

In that old kitchen room. 

She is a part of me and mine, 

And every song I sing 
I feel that I should credit her 

As rivers do their spring. 
And if there be, in time to come, 

Some laurel for my lays, 
Oh, place it gently where she sleeps. 

And give her all the praise. 



**9!f jioije mm mw ti^e 

*'If love were what the rose is," 
'Twould shut at close of day, 
And at the touch of autumn 
'Twould fade and die away. 

"If love were what the. rose is,' 
Its fragrance would depart 
And make a lonesome garden 
Of all the human heart. 

"If love were what the rose is," 
'Tv/ould ease no weight of grief. 
And in the stormy weather 
Dismantle, leaf by leaf. 

"If love were what the rose is," 
Ah, who of love would sing? 
Or in the clutch of winter 
Look forward to the spring? 



"3 



^iv flDriole 

In the shadows cool and dim, 
Hanging from an upper limb 
Of an old ancestral tree, 
A most wondrous house I see ; 
'Tis the castle high and tight 
Of Sir Oriole, the knight. 
Prince of pleasant woodland ways, 
Jouster in his lady's praise, 
Singing like a troubadour, 
Happy in the sweet amour. 
All around his broad demesne 
Stretches glossy bright and green; 
His a wilderness of love. 
Shade below and sun above. 
Brook that ever babbling flows, 
Wind that laughs and smiling rose; 
Brothers are they, one and all, 
Bringing tribute to his hall. 
Fragrance, mirth, and melody 
Linked with light and liberty. 
Oh, he is a happy wight 
In his kingdom of delight, 
114 



5ir Oriole 

Like some lord of Brittany 
Dwelling by the summer sea. 

See him flashing through the trees: 

Once, in far Hesperides, 

His ancestor fought at dusk 

Through great gardens faint with musk, 

Thronged with trees of golden fruit, 

And so won his armor suit — 

Orange in a field of black. 

And his 'scutcheon, without lack, 

Still his young descendant bears 

And that ancient honor shares. 

Who would storm his castle must 

Be prepared for royal thrust; 

Yea, his little heart is bold 

All marauders to withhold. 

Darting here and there so free 

In his realm of greenery. 

Rich is he. When winter nears, 

And frost the merry woodland seres 

Off is he unto a land 

By rude tempests never fanned. 

Many, many fields of rice 

He may harvest without price; 

Many, many evenings dream 

By the never-freezing stream, 

"5 



Sbix <^ti(iU 



While his children seek them mates 
In his golden vast estates, 
Planning how and where to build 
When the winter's reign is filled 
Over hills and far avv'ay, 
When the northern spring shall say: 
Come, ye brothers of the sun, 
Welcome, welcome every one; 
Gladden once again my skies, 
Make my woodlands paradise; 
Lord and Lady Oriole, 
Come, oh, come and fright the dole 
That here lingers till you sing — 
Sing a song and flash a wing 
In the gardens of the spring. 



ii6 



iLotje isi not ^o ijfleeting 

That is simply passion 

Which can only see 
In bright eyes and dimples 

Its felicity. 
Love is not so fleeting, 

Love is not so cold, 
Love will kiss the wrinkles 

On our foreheads old. 

Let the roses wither, 

Let the bleak days come; 
Let the summer's music 

In our fields grow dumb. 
Love will cheer the winter 

As in time of spring; 
Though the tree be leafless 

And no minstrel sing. 



117 



©enfce 

When first I saw, enthroned amidst the sea, 
The Adriatic's bride in splendor bright. 
And called to mind her ancient pomp and 
might, 

I longed forever in that realm to be 

Her subject, vassal, slave, and votary; 

For I beheld, made real, the dazzling sight 

Of one fond dream of glory and of light 

That long had lived within the heart of me; 

Yet had not dared to hope that space possessed 
The full unrivaled luster of its glow. 

Wondering, I gazed to see its soul expressed 
A thousand-fold; and I rejoiced to know 

That beauty, dreamed, is found beyond our 
youth 

In the substantial elements of truth. 



ii8 



^toeet ti^e mm at ^otn 

Sweet the roses at morn; 
The lilies were sweet; 
Sweet, too, the grasses were. 
Kissing her feet. 
'Oh, surely," I said, "where she goes 
The nectar of happiness flows; 
The hearts of the lily and rose, 
Drinking, beat high." 

Gay the roses at noon ; 
The lilies were gay; 
Gay, too, the grasses were, 
Loving the day. 
*0h, surely," I said, "they are right. 
When feasting on beauty and light. 
Unthinking of sorrow and blight, 
Never to sigh." 

Pale the roses at eve; 

The lilies were pale; 
Pale, too, the grasses were, 

Pity*s the tale. 



Stoeet ti)e Moses at Worn 



Oh, surely," I said, "joy is brief; 
Their eyelids are dewy with grief; 
They wither like hope and the leaf, 
Waiting to die." 



flDn f (ttDing a ?E>eaD I3ee in a 

Industrious pirate! far he roamed, 
And twice ten thousand flowers 

Paid tribute to his fiery zeal 
Through all the lavish hours. 

But he did meet his fate at last;' 

A bloom there was so fair, 
He turned a saint and lived content, 

Adored and perished there. 



121 



0om 

The day hath reached the summit of its race, 
Like some proud king at zenith of his power, 
Who mounts a height his kingdom wide to trace, 
And taste his strength in one transcendent 
hour. 
Realm after reahn about him lies serene, 
And all is his, one vast and bright demesne, 
A hundred cities, forest, field, and stream, 
Wrapt in a flood of light, 
The symbol of his might. 
The shining robe of his imperial dream. 

Even as he looks, behold ! a shadow small 
Creeps round his throne, and lengthens 
steadily; 
He f rov^rns, and lo ! the shadow darkens all ; 

His sword is out, and swift his minions flee. 
But as they ride the shadows follow fast; 
The realm of Noon is sundered and is past, 
While evening's lordling marches forth to war, 
And like a broken Lear, 
Upon his ready spear. 
The great king sinks beneath his fallen star. 



Ci^e €>pal 

Essence of sunset, 
Pearl of the morn, 

Glow of red passion, 
Beauty and scorn, 

And violet love, 

When wast thou born? 

Art thou the annal 
Of Abel and Cain? 

Of altars — upreared 
In Eden's fair plain — 

One duly honored. 
The other in vain? 

This v;ith its blossoms 
And fruit of the vine — 

That with the living, 
And therefore divine; 

This one unlighted, 
And that one ashine? 

Art thou the mingled 
Passions at heart — ■ 
123 



CJe (Dpal 

The jealous unreason, 
The wild slayer's art — 

With that of the love 
Of its nobler part? 

The blood of the victim 

That cried from the ground? 

Forgiveness that followed 
The terrible wound? 

The anguish of Eden 
When Abel was found? 

The crystalline mirror 
Of hope and despair? 

The glad fountain frozen 
To silentness there, 

Reflecting and holding 
The base and the fair? 

Such are the thoughts 

The opal inspires; 
Such are the gleams 

That flash in its fires, 
The mirth and the madness 

Of human desires. 



124 



Time is passing swiftly, wife; 

Love is just as fleet, 
Since wherever Time doth go, 

Patter rosy feet. 

Never any path so rough, 

Never one so long. 
But Love cheers it to the end 

With a merry song. 

Time cannot outwit the boy, 
Though he lead him far, 

Though he shroud in darkest night 
Every winking star. 

Therefore let the shadows come, 

And the snows of age; 
Love will find us shelter warm 

When the tempests rage. 

Time is passing swiftly, wife — 

W^hat have we to do? 
Just to trust him, since his path 

Is Love's pathway, too. 
125 



mi^itt Cloljet: 



Whose tiny sheaves of white are these 

All sprinkled through the grass? 
Is't harvest-time in fairyland 

And doth the reaper pass? 
Methought I heard a little wain 

Creak homeward through the dusk 
Or was it a belated bee 

With his last load of musk? 

The cricket chirped, the robin sung, 

The firefly lit his spark; 
I heard the fay about his door 

Sing gayly in the dark. 
To-morrow he will gather in 

The last of his small sheaves, 
To lie upon a fragrant couch 

Beneath his autumn eaves. 

Kind little fay, to sow and reap 

And give the golden half! 
When all the honey good is gone 

He takes away the chaff. 

i26 



2l2af)ite iKlober 



But what have gentle fays to do 
To pass the summer-time! 

Content are they to reap and give- 
And you may have the rhyme. 



F27 



Ci^e ^i^rfne 



My soul is ever at its prayers 

In my heart's shrine 
That I may be worthy of thee 

And thou be mine. 

Oh, answer me, my saint, and say 

Shall that time fall? 
Or must I kneel until I feel 

Death to me call? 

Ghost-like, without, the ice-rains tap 

And cold winds sigh, 
Hope hungers in her cheerless cell 

And all things die. 



;28 



i^optttg 



In the fever and fret of noon 

I dream of the crescent moon, 

Of twilight and the evening star, 

Serene and bright above the bar; 

And, dreaming thus, each thorn I press 

May wound as deep, but stings the less; 

For roses sweet I may not see, 

Somewhere, I fancy, bloom for me, 

Beyond the fever and the fret 

Of noisy noons — and I forget, 

Forget the wounds and bind them up 

As I had drained nepenthe's cup. 

Oh, bliss! that in the moil of strife 

The kiture glorifies our life, 

And makes the path of duty sweet. 

Though we pass through with bleeding feet. 



129 



Co a ^notDbftD 

There's something of the Viking in thy heart. 

When winter comes, and all thy brothers flee 

To sunny groves beside the summer sea, 
Thou dost remain to play the braver part 
Of breasting storms that through the heavens 
dart 

In warlike mail and strength. With tenfold 
glee 

Thou twitt'rest in their teeth triumphantly. 
Nor mind'st the biting cold and aching smart. 

To gain subsistence in the harvest days, 
When every field and tree presents its store, 

Is not enough to sate thy sturdy soul. 

Like those hale northmen of the Runic lays. 
Thou lov'st to beat along a rocky shore 

And win, through strife, the firmly guarded 
goal. 



130 



When thy soldier home doth speed, 

All victorious from the field, 
Riding on his haughty steed 

Or borne, cold, upon his shield. 
Smile — if living, smile — if dead; 

Let this thought thy bosom swell: 
Love inspired him, honor led — 

Glory blossomed where he fell. 



131 



?©affoti(l)S 

Ye golden trumpets of the fields, 

What lucent music floats 
Upon the dewy air of morn 

From your celestial throats? 

What throng of unseen spirits blow 
What triumphs through the sky? 

Hath Israfel and all his choir 
Descended from on high? 

Stood some proud gate of heaven ajar 
Through which, in glad array, 

Ye passed, for one short earthly hour 
To charm our barren day? 

Bright heralds, hail! though we see just 

The happy instrument, 
Full well we know for no vain cause 

This royal pomp was sent. 

Though we see not the spirit forms 
That this sweet music make. 

Yet still we hear, as in our dreams, 
And bless you for its sake. 
132 



And knowing this and loving you, 

We cannot fail to find 
The good intended for our souls, 

Though mortal eyes be blind. 



133 



She brought to me fresh oranges, 

Wild honey in the comb, 
And fragrant nuts and apples strange, 

That grew about her home; 
And as I sat and sipped or ate, 

Within the patio there, 
Adown she took her loved guitar 

And sung a Spanish air. 

I did not understand the words, 

Yet somehow in my heart 
I understood the meaning of 

The music of her art; 
And thought did fly beyond the blue 

Of many a league of sea. 
Until I seemed to be again 

Beneath my cottage tree. 

And I beheld, not far away, 
A maid of northern type — 

One morning at a little farm 
When cherries all were ripe. 
134 



^i)t Scnorita 



The mowers, one by one, had gone 

And left us, sweet, alone. 
To talk of love among the scent 

Of meadows newly mown. 

We plucked the fruit as in a dream. 

While robin in the tree. 
Full deep in love with his brown mate 

Ate twice as much as we. 
Although we had long years to love. 

And he a season there, 
We squandered not the precious time 

With much of mortal fare. 

And so when I my oranges 

And honey put aside^ 
Scarce tasted for the dream they brought, 

I found the song had died; 
The singer dark had vanished, too; 

It mattered not to me — 
My soul was far away the while 

Beyond the Caribee. 



135 



^tratobtrtlcjS 



Ay, all the fairy folk are gone 
From pleasant field and wood, 

Yet they have not forsaken us 
In their solicitude. 

Forsooth, their souls were borne away, 

Since we forgot so soon; 
Yet, loving us, have they contrived 

A more than mortal boon. 

Behold you here their benefits 

In guise that half deceives! 
Say, whose but theirs these flaming hearts 

On salvers of green leaves? 



136 



Now daisies nod upon the hill 
And lilies grace the vale, 

And violets, in woodland nooks, 
Unlace their petals pale. 

Where'er I go it is the same: 
The joyous face of earth 

Looks up and smiles so pleasantly 
It fills my soul with mirth. 

O winter, winter, tarry long. 
Nor any blossom blight 

Until I sip from many fields 
The honey of delight. 

Let me pursue like any bee 

The rosy lips of time, 
And set against a leafless age 

The melody of rhyme. 



^37 



Ci^e Captain 



Nov/, when he might not see the golden sun, 
And on his chart his latitude obtain, 
And know exact our course upon the main. 
Our captain slowed the vessel on her run 

And sounded in the deep, and gained 
thereby 
Full knowledge where we were, and went 

ahead 
As confident as he had lately read 
The shining dial of the open sky. 
So I, when thought doth leave me in a doubt 

Which way to turn, resort unto the heart, 
And from its depths the secret ravel out, 

And where I sail do point upon the chart, 
Grow calm again, regardless of the stars. 
Escape the rocks and round the fateful bars. 



138 



Just to hear the robin sing, 

Welcoming the light; 
Just to hear his evensong, 

Bidding day good night, 
Makes an Eden of the morn, 

And the twilight dim 
Chaste and holy as the realm 

Of the seraphim. 

Who that hears his bubbling notes 

Feels not from his soul 
Something like a wave of joy 

Through his bosom roll? 
Who but feels that he is kin 

To angelic things? 
That the dust is cleared away 

From immortal springs? 

Sing thy song and let me hear. 
Learning, bird, from thee 

That the twilight, like the dawn, 
Holds felicity; 

139 



5ong for Song 



That our lives, anear their close, 

As in morns of youth. 
Still are founts of happiness — 

And more near to truth. 



140 



a HBm^Wt of ti^c ^wn 

Oh, dark-haired maiden of the south, 
The ruby of thy perfect mouth, 
Thy teeth of pearl, thy lustrous eyes 
Are peri-like, of paradise. 

Thy brown cheek's blush, thy form of grace, 
The light, the laughter of thy face. 
Proclaim thee daughter of the sun. 
In whose warm heart his blood doth run. 

Forever thou dost look on flowers, 
And breathe their fragrance at all hours; 
Thou hast not known, shall never know, 
The birdless branches of the snow. 

All seasons doth the nightingale 
Pour out for thee his lovelorn tale ; 
Night after night the damask rose 
At thy wide casement buds and blows. 

The frosts, the blight of northern lands, 
Set not their feet upon thy strands; 
Forever on thy shores the sea 
Sings a delicious melody. 
141 



^ IBaugf)ter of tf^t Sun 



And all this music, all this mirth, 
This bloom, this magic of the earth, 
In thee commingled, mold thy mind 
To live on love and make thee kind. 

Fear not the daughter of the north 
From any heart can drive thee forth; 
As suns on frozen mountain shine. 
Thy glow shall conquer, maid divine. 

Thy warmth of love, unchanging, deep. 
Like vestal fire, shall brightly keep 
The inner temples of the breast. 
And prove thee there both first and best 

Farewell! but only for a time. 
My ship again shall seek thy clime. 
And I no more depart from thee. 
Few be the tears you shed for me, 

Few be the sighs. If I go far. 
My skies shall hold a single star. 
And it again shall bring me back 
From every world-encircling track. 



142 



Cfme i^iav ^teal ti^e m^^V 

Time may steal the dewy bloom 
Of all our summer roses ; 

He can never bring to doom 
Hearts where love reposes. 

He may shower us with dole, 
He may rack the bosom; 

He can never from the soul 
Shake one tender blossom. 

He can never raise the bar 

To that inner garden ; 
He can never hope to mar 

Hearts where love is warden. 

Therefore let us not deplore 

Any stress of weather, 
But, securing fast the door, 

Laugh at him together. 



HZ 



Poet! thy soul doth still inhabit earth; 
From its worn house, departing, gazed around 
And, free to choose, left not its native ground, 
High-thinking haunts and deep eternal mirth. 
Still throbs the world unto thy royal worth, 
Still finds thee where the best of thoughts 

abound. 
Still hears thy voice for justice lash the sound 
Of noisy wrongs, and plead the newer birth. 
O lofty soul! through magic such as thine 
Our old dead selves, transmuted, clearer see 
And higher climb, above the shadows far. 
Until we breathe an ether half divine 
And feel the godlike boon of liberty 
Touch our blind brows with something like 

a star! 



In my garden I saw Time 
Mowing down my posies. 
"Sir." I said, "will you not spare 
One of all my roses?" 

Oh, the cruel words he spake! 
Oh, his cruel laughter! 
"Keep this dead one; it is thine — 
Till I come hereafter." 

Pressed against my heart so warm. 
Away I bore the blossom. 

Just the ghost of what it was. 
Still it haunts my bosom. 

Well I know that Time will come 

To reclaim his flower; 
I will give him all I have — 

The ashes of this hour. 



M5 



^fttg, 'BfrtJg 



Sing, birds, at first faint peep o' day, 

And let me wake to hear; 
The shortest night is much too long 

At this glad time of year. 

Sing, birds; the brightest dream is poor 

Compared unto your lays; 
The longest day is much too short 

When ye pour out your praise. 

Your songs the undenied retreats 

Of paradise did thrill; 
Small wonder that we love to hear 

From that blest region still. 

Sing, birds, old songs forever new; 

One perfect note of mirth 
Is more than all the music wrought 

By man upon the earth. 

Sing, birds, at first faint peep o' day; 

Your happy hearts are free; 
Ours can but dream, and dreaming, mourn 

For their lost liberty. 
146 



I dreamt that I met Love, 

And pinched his cheek in fun, 
Whereat, in tears, unto 

His mother he did run; 
And Beauty frowned at me, 

And I was filled with dread; 
Since when, if I meet Love, 

I kiss his cheek instead. 



14/ 



mintn'^ mnmtl 

Beside my hearth, in genial glow of heat, 
I close my book of song and legend old. 
To hear the ancient minstrel of the cold 

Recite his saga with the rhythmic beat, 

Against the window-panes, of Runic sleet. 
He came at set of sun across the wold 
With chilly winds — his brothers, warrior 
bold— 

That whirl late leaves unto their last defeat 
And pound upon belated sails at sea. 

He chants the dirge of Balder lying low. 
This minstrel hoar, the while I listen keen, 
Applaud his numbers, swelling sad and free, 

Then turn once more unto my book and grow 
Oblivious, wandering through some meadows 
green. 



1^8 



Co ^ome (Breefi pott^ 

Bees that culled from sunny fields 

Sweet Arcadian songs, 
Ye are gone, but to the world 

Your honey pure belongs ; 
Deathless, ye are wintered safe 

Beyond the touch of time, 
Sleeping in the golden cells 

Of your immortal rhyme. 



149 



abjsolution 

All in a pleasant valley, 
That greenest hills inclose, 

I reared a goodly palace 
And trained the lordly rose. 

I said: "Unto my kingdom 
Shall come no human woes." 

I wooed the god of laughter, 
I courted love and song; 

About my ample kingdom 
It was one summer long, 

With never any tempest 
To do my roses wrong. 

And all the skies were sunny, 
And all the paths were bright. 

And all the stars unclouded 
Throughout the placid night. 

As from their golden censers 
O'erflowed their scented light. 

150 



^(jisolutiort 



And in the fields of morning 

The asphodels awoke, 
And lilies of the valley, 

Of which the Savior spoke; 
And daffodils their glory 

Upon the vision broke. 

It was a happy valley, 

Where brilliant birds did sing, 
Where butterflies did dazzle 

With iridescent wing; 
And I, within that valley, 

Was prophet, priest, and king. 

I craved not fame nor glory, 
Nor wealth nor foolish ease, 

But only sought for freedom 
And only sighed for peace — 

A realm wherein no demon 
Might bid my joy decrease. 

But to my happy valley 
A thousand evils came, 

And thronged my quiet palace 
And cursed my very name, 

And drove me forth a beggar. 
And loaded me with shame. 

151 



^lisolution 



They could not see me happy 
And they not happy be ; 

They could not think of freedom 
And not themselves be free, 

But they must make me vassal 
And bind their chains on me. 

And nov/ I wander lonely 

The mountains bleak and bare- 

Because my heart was selfish 
And had no joy to share; 

Inhuman and unholy, 

Because no tears were there. 

And now I carry crosses, 
And now I weep with Grief, 

And with the House of Sorrow 
Divide my garnered sheaf. 

And what I have of roses 
I scatter leaf by leaf. 



152 



Co a TButterfl? 

Glad little milk-white butterfly, 

Your life's a happy one, 
Flitting, fluttering here and there 

In mild September's sun. 

Now up in air, now through the grass, 

Now sailing round a tree. 
Now o'er a rhythmic brook you pass, 

A winged ecstasy. 

Now on a sapless weed you rest 
And fan your phantom wings, 

Or stay to sip a bursting grape 
That in the arbor swings. 

But where the loaded cider-press 
Is dripping morn and noon, 

You longest pause, and I will swear 
You taste the heart of June. 

If it is given some to know 
And feel the mirth of spring, 

'Tis yours to roam the harvest haunts 
And share in everything. 
153 



Co a ^uttecflg 



I can but think, oh, joyous one. 

You are the tiny ghost 
Of some first bud of winter's heir 

Slain by the frosty host. 

That Time, to make you just amends 
For what you missed of May, 

Has brought you back to all the gold 
Of this September day. 



154 



a^alentme 

I would I were the little flower 
That springeth in thy path; 

Its life is one of happiness, 
A happy death it hath. 

You love it, pluck it, to your lips 
You press its modest eyes; 

It closes them and falls asleep: 
That kiss is paradise. 

Oh, make me, sweet, thy valentine. 
Or I that flower shall prove 

Which rude winds shatter pitiless 
And no lips love. 



155 



©aton 

Chaste pilot of the dawn! 
The morning-star a golden welcome finds 
In peaceful kingdoms and in quiet minds. 

Up, up! ere it be gone. 

A rosy shell along the shore of night 

This dewy hour appears, 
A nautilus around the world that sails, 
A blithe ship heralding Apollo bright 

Through all the rolling years; 
Blown hitherward by cool and spicy winds 
Still emulous of last eve's nightingales, 
And lovers' ne'er too oft repeated tales. 
Lo! as I gaze, it disappears from sight; 
In sails the whole grand argosy of light. 



1^6 



m)t t^alltv of ti^e ^i^aDoto 

Not uninvited entered Death, 

For, in the twilight dim. 
We saw her smile, and gladly go 

Away with him. 

We wished not back to suffering 
The spirit that had passed. 

Nor troubled with our cries the night 
That gathered fast. 

We only knelt about her couch. 
And spoke with bated breath 

Of how the vale grew light when she 
Walked through with Death. 



157 



^ons 



When purple lilacs scent the air, 

And spiders tie the emerald grass, 
Hope, in her latticed bower fair, 

Looks out to see her lover pass; 
Looks out and trills a roundelay, 

And this is what she sings: 
**The trees have buds and birds — ^ 

And Love has wings." 

When autumn stains are on the leaves. 

And only one lone cricket shrills; 
When all the grain is bound in sheaves. 

And cold winds haunt the dreary hills, 
Hope, wandering, croons her roundelay. 

And this is what she sings: 
"The trees had buds and birds, 

And Love had wings." 



158 



Shivering by a field of corn 
I saw Cupid go this morn; 
Purple was his little nose, 
Purple all his chubby toes, 
Purple hands together pressed 
Chilly misery confessed, 
And his teeth such music made 
As with castanets is played. 
Ah, his look was full of woe; 
Never one I pitied so. 

*'Cupid, come, my dear, and rest; 
Warm yourself within my breast; 
Go no farther, child, to-day; 
Ever in my presence stay." 

Gladly to my arms he came ; 
Soon I saw a rosy flame 
Blossom in his cheeks so fair, 
And I kissed him then and there; 
Kissed and took him with me home. 
Oh, he was too small to roam 

159 



m m)/^ Inn 



Unbefriended in the cold, 
And so sweet to have and hold. 
By the fire I sat him down, 
Wrapped him in a woolly gown, 
Fed him with some dainties sweet, 
Chafed his icy hands and feet; 
Then he sleepy grew, and slept, 
While I loving vigil kept. 

Waking soon, he gazed at me 
With indifference strange to see; 
In his eyes I saw no sign 
That he loved me or was mine. 
*'Cupid, Cupid!" then I said — 
More I could not — out he fled, 
Fled away and shut the door; 
Never shall I see him more. 

Later, from a musty book, 

Dropped the secret of his look. 

Love should spring as spring the flowers ; 

Love is born of sunny hours; 

Pity may to friendship move, 

It should not awaken love. 



160 



Co 9Ioi? 

Oh, who can summon thee to quietness? 

Or to the wanness of a shadow bring 

Thy rounded ruddiness? Or bid thee sing 
A tearful ditty, such as loves Distress? 
In thy glad presence who will pain confess? 

Who not to happy fancies give the wing. 

And fill with mirth, the soulful mirth of 
spring. 
If he but feel thy lips his cold lips press? 
Let all sweet music praise thee, gleeful Joy 

Our Joy with dimples, laughter, soft replies. 
For thou of Time art an immortal boy. 

Companion dear of Love; unto the wise 
A comrade true, but thou art more than coy 

Unto Dishonor — haunting with sad eyes. 



i6i 



I am not what I was of yore, 

With heart all light and thought so free; 
The hopes I dreamed, alas! no more 

Now follow me. 

My spirit now, the while it sings. 

Seems weighted down with leaden cares; 

The harp, once glad, hath other strings 
And sadder airs. 

The world — it seems a bauble now. 
The market-place for gold and fame — 

An empty thing, a broken vow, 
A hollow name. 

Once, on her throne, I Virtue saw, 
And thought all men her vassals true: 

Her creed, I find, is only law 
Unto the few.' 

Bright Honor swayed each heart, it seemed: 
His was the soul of all mankind; 

But looking back, I know I dreamed, 
And men are blind. 

162 



^{)e mti Min^tul 



The cry is Gain, whose blazing crest 
Leads wildly on till nations fall; 

The frenzy of each soulless breast 
Is its own pall. 

What hand or deed, what song or voice, 
Shall e'er redeem the stricken race? 

Deep in its blood it finds its choice — 
And its disgrace. 

Old Carthage had a glory, born 

Of great commercial zeal and strife; 

'Twas all she had; when it was shorn 
It took her life. 

And what she thought or where she stood 
The world knows not — and it is best; 

One charm of Greece — perchance a mood- 
Outlives her zest. 

Outlives it! and our lesson speaks; 

'Twas Beauty, leaning from her car, 
At Carthage, dry, puffed out her cheeks. 

And blew it far. 



163 



muti mo\tt0 

O little fairies of the wood, 

That when the first warm days appear 
Dot all the nooks and sweetly flood 

The softer air, what brings ye here? 

Frail heralds of approaching May 

Ye are, and strew her paths with sheen 

Of purple beauty, ere the day 

She walks the land its virgin queen. 

Afar she comes, the while ye bloom 
And woo to green the willing sod, 

And rouse to song the cheerless gloom 
Of naked trees, and stir the god 

In everything, that she may find 
The earth a-clamor for her reign. 

And so ye pass; and I were blind 

To deepest thoughts if, when her train 

Of rich magnificence and pride 
Swept in, I should remember not 

The modest sweets that bloomed and died 
To herald her and be forgot. 
164 



W^t fountain l^ool 

This lucid mountain pool doth hold 
In its embrace the Age of Gold. 
Shut in by lofty peaks, it seems 
No brother to the noisy streams; 
It takes its life from cloistered springs 
Deep as the central truth of things, 
And lives apart from common ways 
In endless mood of nature's praise. 
Reflected in its face serene 
Naught but sublimity is seen ; 
By day the flaming king of light, 
The pomp of starry hosts by night; 
The far-uplifted mountain forms, 
The great and giant-warring storms, 
Returning peace, and eagles high, 
Slow-sailing in the freshened sky. 
So long these scenes, austere, supreme. 
Have fed each thought and lit each dream 
That it has grown to feel, and be. 
The solitude's divinity. 
In whose broad bosom, calm and pure, 
Only the grand and vast endure. 
165 



€f)e iBountain ^ool 



God of the Mountain Pool ! ordain 
Me subject of thy happy reign; 
Like thy deep wave, let my soul grow 
To mirror nothing mean or low, 
And in its fastness see around 
The wise, the mighty, and profound; 
Like thy clear wave, forever gaze 
Inward and upward all my days, 
Lost to the idle, thoughtless throng, 
An heir to solitude and song. 



166 



PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY 
AND SONS COMPANY AT THE 
LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. 



OCT 1» !>*"'» 



m 



L/BRARY OF 



■I^ONGRESS 



'*m'n'S 



M U S 



CHARLES G 
BLAND EN 



